by Mark McKay
‘Of course I remembered. Well, should you?’
‘For another week or two. Falling is not recommended, I’ll need to find another form of exercise after that.’
The sensei appeared then, and everyone sat on the edge of the mat and went through the opening ritual of bowing and asking for tuition in Japanese. Lauren sat next to him as the sensei beckoned to another student and together they went over the technique to be practised, alternating the roles of attack and defence. Then it was their turn.
They faced one another. He came at her with an overhead strike and she stepped in close and just outside of him, raising her right arm to deflect his in a downward direction. Then she lowered her arm to keep his where it was and used her left arm to bring his head down and into the curve of her neck and shoulder. He was now off balance and she stepped forward, bringing her right arm up in a sweeping motion which took him under the chin and propelled him backwards. Done with full intention it was a neck-breaker, so there was a level of co-operation and trust needed between attacker and defender. Nick fell into a backward roll and was up on his feet again. She’d come at him fast.
‘Don’t get too enthusiastic, the child might want a father.’
‘Was I enthusiastic? Come on old man, again please.’
Two hours and a few changes of practice partner later, they wound up for the evening.
‘Come back to mine,’ he suggested. ‘We can talk there.’
They got a takeaway and strolled back through Chislehurst Village to the flat. Lauren was in the kitchen, spooning rice and lamb curry from packet to plate. Nick opened the fridge, looking for a bottle of Sancerre he thought should still be there. It was. ‘I knew I had another bottle,’ he exclaimed in triumph. He saw her expression.
‘Ah, no wine for you then.’
‘No, see what we women have to suffer?’
He put the bottle back in the fridge.
‘No need for you to get on the wagon too,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t last.’
The living room doubled as a dining space, with the table in the corner by the window, overlooking the street. Lauren brought the food through and they sat down to eat. After the recent physical exertion both their appetites were keen and for a minute they focused entirely on lamb curry.
‘Good, as usual,’ said Nick.
‘I’m so hungry. One minute I’m feeling sick and the next I’m starving.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Throw up and eat of course. Whatever the situation demands.’ She gave him a long look. ‘I’m having this child, Nick. With or without you.’
There was no doubting her resolve. ‘I don’t know what kind of father I’d make. Mine was never there. And as a role model, he had nothing going for him.’
‘You never talk about your family.’
Nick sighed. ‘Nothing to talk about. My brother died and my parents are gone, now.’
‘What happened to your brother?’
‘He was two years younger. One night when we were teenagers, we got drunk and argued. He got on his motorbike and crashed it. Killed himself.’
She saw the pain the admission had caused him, and reached for his hand. ‘Don’t blame yourself. I think you’ll be a wonderful father.’
He managed a smile. ‘It will mean some changes, for both of us.’
‘We’ll work it out.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Just watch us.’
He groaned the next morning as the alarm woke him at 5am. Lauren turned over in bed and mumbled something.
‘I need to make a phone call,’ he explained. ‘Go back to sleep.’
After an orange juice and a shower he was wide awake. He wandered into the living room in a tracksuit bottom and t-shirt and parted the curtains. Chislehurst Village slumbered on, oblivious for another hour at least. He spotted one intrepid insomniac out walking the dog, otherwise the place was deathly quiet. The sun had just come up and it was the moment of transition from darkness to daylight. He loved this time of morning, the stillness and the newness of it, though he was rarely up early enough to enjoy it. He stood there for a minute, just absorbing it. Then he remembered he had something to do.
He made the call and this time there was no answer machine.
‘India Society, how can I help?’ A woman with a cultured Indian pronunciation.
‘I’d like to speak with Alexander Marsh.’ Nick told her who he was. ‘It’s in relation to an investigation I’m carrying out.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Marsh is unwell. He was taken ill yesterday and went to hospital, with stomach pains.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Severance. I don’t believe so, but he was in a lot of discomfort.’
‘I see.’ This was a setback. ‘Can I leave you my number? I’d very much like to talk to him when he’s feeling better.’
He gave her the details and ended the call. That had gone precisely nowhere. While he was at it he would try Rebecca. Her phone went straight to voice mail so he left a message, asking her to return the call as soon as she possibly could.
All of this had taken less than fifteen minutes and it wasn’t even 6am, yet. He reset the alarm to give him another hour and went back to bed. He knew that Rebecca would probably disturb him in that time, but it seemed like the best course of action under the circumstances.
A few hours later he was in the office, still waiting for the call. He tried her again, but nothing. He shuffled through the notes on his desk until he uncovered the name and number of her hotel and then he called them. The person he spoke to said he’d check her room and now that he thought about it he hadn’t seen her at breakfast, perhaps she had gone out early and breakfasted elsewhere. Would Nick call back in fifteen minutes?
He did and the receptionist, or whoever it was, sounded puzzled.
‘It’s odd, Detective Chief Inspector. The door to Ms Slade’s room was ajar when I went up. If she went out, she left her bag and her phone behind. And the bed hasn’t been slept in. I’m sure she was here last night, though.’
Alarm bells started ringing. ‘Thank you. If she comes back ask her to call me as a matter of urgency, would you?’
Yvonne Hathaway sat at the far end of the office, and he walked over.
‘I think we’ve lost Rebecca Slade,’ he said.
She looked up in surprise. ‘But I thought you talked to her the day before yesterday, sir.’
‘I did. I expected to talk to her again and now she seems to have left the hotel, without her phone or her bag. It may be nothing, but would you dig me out a number for the Archaeological Survey of India Office in Kolkata?’ Yvonne nodded. ‘Better still,’ he continued, ‘call them yourself. Ask if Rebecca visited them this morning. And tell them we would like to know if they’re working on a site, near a place called Chipra. If they say no, tell them we have some photos they might want to see and get an email address so I can send them on.’
‘Right, I’m on it sir.’
Nick went straight downstairs to find Charlie Stephenson, the liaison officer. He was on the phone, but motioned at Nick to sit. A minute later he finished his call.
‘What can I do for you Nick?’
‘The focus of my case has shifted to India, Charlie. I may need to go out there, and soon.’
Charlie massaged his chin reflectively. ‘We gave up India in 1947, you know. You have no jurisdiction there. You can’t question or arrest anyone.’
‘Yes, I realise that. But it’s the best line of enquiry I have. Whatever Simon Wood was up to in India led directly to his death. And now one of his colleagues who went out there to follow up on his work could also be missing.’
‘All I can do is contact the authorities in Kolkata and put the wheels in motion. But these things take time.’
Nick thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Do what you can for me, Charlie. Better to start the process now and cancel it later, if that’s what we need to do.’
Charlie agreed. ‘Do you have
budget for this, by the way?’
‘As SIO I’ll take responsibility for that. One air ticket to Kolkata won’t bankrupt us.’
Charlie held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Nick thanked him and went back to see what Yvonne had to say.
‘No one at the ASI office knows anything about Rebecca, sir. And they don’t have anything going on in Chipra.’ She passed him a post-it note. ‘Email address for a Mr Singh.’
‘Brilliant, Yvonne. Thanks.’
Nick returned to his desk and composed an email, encouraging Mr Singh to visit Chipra at his earliest convenience. The photos should get his attention, he thought. There didn’t seem to be much more of value he could achieve in London. He wondered if it was Sylvie Dajani that Rebecca had heard speaking French, on her way out of the tomb. He had a hunch it just might have been, but Bonnaire had promised to contact him if either Dajani or Le Roux left France and there had been no email or phone call. He would check with Bonnaire anyway and sent another email to the Paris detective, asking for an update.
The last thing to do was get a flight. He started checking availability on line and then belatedly realised he’d need a visa. If he wanted it quickly then that would entail a visit to the Indian Embassy. He delegated the task of finding a flight to Yvonne and then headed back to the flat to pick up his passport and fill in the downloaded application form. This was going to take all day.
By the afternoon of the following day everything was arranged. Bonnaire had replied to his email, saying that although his attempts to contact Le Roux and Dajani had been unsuccessful, there was nothing on record to indicate that they had left the country. He would keep trying. And Mr Singh had also come back to him in a tone that made it clear he was far from convinced of the authenticity of the photos, could Mr Severance assure him they were genuine? Hoax or otherwise, Mr Singh promised to contact a colleague in Patna and ask him to take a look at the site in a day or two. Nick grimaced at that. Mr Singh had not been burdened by any sense of urgency, that much was clear.
His flight was at 9pm. Charlie had promised to let him know once he’d got the name of someone in Kolkata who could help him in an official capacity, but right now he was waiting for an acknowledgement of his request for assistance. For now, that meant that the only progress Nick was likely to make in connection with Rebecca’s disappearance would depend entirely on goodwill. Still, once he’d established her whereabouts he would feel a lot better about the situation and if Mr Singh still had doubts, he would go to Chipra himself. He’d get answers one way or another.
Lauren drove him to the airport.
‘How long will you be away?’ she asked.
‘Just long enough to find out what happened to Rebecca Slade. And once I’ve talked to one or two other people, I might have some new leads to follow up. We’re getting nowhere at the moment.’
‘What about this discovery of hers?’ She had seen the photos Rebecca had sent and he’d brought her up to speed on the details of the case. As he was leaving the country, he felt he owed her an explanation.
‘I’m pretty sure that whoever was at the site when Rebecca took those photos will be able to provide me with some insight into Simon Wood’s murder. That’s my main objective.’
Lauren cast him a worried look, before returning her eyes to the road ahead. ‘I thought you had no jurisdiction in India. You’re a tourist, not a policeman. Don’t do anything rash, please.’
He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, rash is the last thing I’ll be.’
Chapter 7
He had booked a room at Rebecca’s hotel, the Green Street. Once he’d unpacked, he sought out the receptionist he’d spoken to from London. As Rebecca was still absent the hotel management had agreed to let him examine her room.
‘Everything is as she left it,’ explained the young Indian woman as she led him up the stairs to the verandah. ‘Is there any news?’
‘Not from my side,’ he answered. ‘Did you report her missing?’
‘Yesterday.’ It was now day three of her unscheduled disappearance. ‘I went to the police station myself and filled in a Missing Person’s Report.’
Nick thought he would visit the station, later. If he told them about Chipra they might get someone to look into it. He had no idea of police procedure in this country and wondered what their track record was like when it came to finding missing people. Still, he would offer his assistance.
The flight and the step up in temperature was taking its toll already, he should have brought some lighter clothes. The receptionist, who was smartly dressed in a white cotton trouser suit, stopped outside Rebecca’s room. It was situated directly opposite his room, across the width of the courtyard below the verandah. She opened the door.
‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ With that, she left him alone.
It was stuffy inside. He switched on the ceiling fan and looked around. Rebecca’s phone was on the bed, along with her bag. He opened the wardrobe to find two empty suitcases stacked below a few dresses and jeans, all neatly hung. Then he checked the clothes drawers. They were well stocked, too. The bathroom cabinet opened to reveal a toothbrush, toothpaste and a small bottle of perfume. Not the sort of things you’d leave behind if you were going anywhere of your own volition.
He went back to the bedroom. The phone was dead, he wondered where the charger was and then spotted it plugged in to a socket by the bed. He connected the phone and turned his attention to the bag. He upended it and the contents spilled across the bedspread. Among the lipstick and various other cosmetics he saw her passport, a notebook and some scraps of notepaper. He opened the passport - Rebecca Slade, no middle name. Born 1982 in Catford, London. A reasonable photo, too, for a passport picture. It caught the inquisitive expression that he remembered from their meeting. That curiosity might cost her dear, he thought. No trademark purple streaked hair, though. He put it to one side and looked at the notebook, which was blank, or so he thought as he flipped through the pages. He almost missed it, she’d written something on the back page. Dated five days ago and it looked like a licence plate number. The day she found the lions. There was nothing else of interest. He picked up the passport, the notebook and the phone with its charger. Taking a last look around, he turned off the fan and then making sure the door was securely shut, made his way back to his own room.
He pondered the licence plate number for a while. It must be significant. It was late afternoon now, but that shouldn’t matter. After splashing some cold water on his face he felt mildly refreshed and then he went downstairs. The receptionist smiled at him.
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Not sure. Can you direct me to the police station?’
‘Best to get a taxi from here. Let me arrange it.’
It was only five minutes by car. The station was an imposing four storey building made of ochre red brick, with white sash windows. Two flagpoles out front flew the flag of India. Nick made his way to the enquiry desk and quoted the reference number the receptionist had given him. The man behind the desk typed it in and then spent a minute looking at the result of his query. He looked at Nick impassively.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m a Detective Chief Inspector, from London.’
A slight widening of the eyes greeted this remark. ‘You are investigating this disappearance, then?’
‘Yes, and I wondered if someone here might help.’
‘Take a seat please. I will see who is available.’
Fifteen minutes later a uniformed officer appeared and spoke briefly to the man on the desk, who gestured in Nick’s direction. The officer wore shoulder insignia consisting of three silver stars, with one red and one black stripe beneath them.
‘I am Inspector of Police, Rajeev Shah,’ he said, as Nick stood up. ‘Do you have some identification?’
Nick produced his own credentials, and with the formalities out of the way he followed Shah down a long corridor and into an o
ffice. The Inspector seated himself behind a desk and motioned Nick to a chair. He consulted a document for a moment.
‘This lady was reported missing yesterday,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can explain your interest in this, please?’
Some forty minutes later the Inspector leaned back in his chair, with a sigh. ‘Quite a story.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will see if we can trace the licence number for you. In the meantime, could you check with the Archaeological Survey of India to see what action they took? If they did nothing I will ask someone in Patna to visit Chipra.’
‘Thank you. Let me give you my contact details.’
As far as international co-operation went, it was a good start. Inspector Shah walked Nick back to reception and promised to call as soon as he had more information on the licence plate. Nick asked the man on reception where he could find a taxi. He felt tired but optimistic, this might provide a lead in the right direction sooner than anticipated. He returned to his hotel room as satisfied as he could be, all things considered.
Mr Singh at the ASI was apologetic. No one had as yet checked the site, he would ring his colleague in Patna again today and find out what was delaying him.
‘I think Ms Slade found something,’ said Nick. ‘I really think you should be taking this seriously.’
Mr Singh promised to expedite matters. Nick was less than convinced, but there was nothing he could do. Maybe Inspector Shah would take it seriously. The next stop was the India Society. When he arrived and asked after Alexander Marsh, the lady on reception duty regarded him bleakly.
‘He is not well,’ she said.
‘Yes, I was told that when I rang a few days ago. I thought he might be out of hospital by now.’
‘He isn’t. In fact his condition is quite serious. Are you a friend?’
‘Acquaintance. Visiting from London.’
She thought for a moment. ‘He’s at the Ganesh Medical Centre. You could go there, but he may not be well enough to see you.’
‘Thank you. I’ll try anyway.’